Moriarty- Jane Moriarty?
by Athena'sDragon
Summary: Richard Brooks really was just Richard Brooks- but there was a real Moriarty! She continues to follow Sherlock through London, but soon develops a dangerous emotional attachment to John Watson. Will she be able to use this to her advantage, or will she fall into the same trap as Irene Adler? Moriarty/Watson. SUSPENDED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
1. Chapter 1: A Different Perspective

**Disclaimer: **I did not create _Sherlock_! I know that the whole "Jane Moriarty" thing has been done before, but I didn't know that when I originally wrote this. I promise that I did not intentionally steal anyone ideas.

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**Author's Note:** Sooooo... yeah. First ever fanfic. Please review if this is insanely confusing or inaccurate, and the later chapters get better and longer. Because of this, stick with it for a bit if you like the concept!

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My long black skirt caught on a small chip in the concrete as I swept up the stairs, stopping me in my tracks. I lost my composure for a brief moment as I twisted sharply, then continued mid-sweep as if there had been no interruption. Behind my mask I was cursing my dramatic flair, as jeans and a sweatshirt would have been functional and inconspicuous. My dramatic flair argued that jeans were hardly fitting attire for watching the destruction of a long-time enemy. Besides, no one had looked at me twice on my short journey here, and I was sure that I had not been followed.

I reached the top of the staircase and swung open the shrieking door. My long, dark hair lifted in breeze-tossed tendrils as I emerged out onto the roof. The London skyline marked the edges of the grey expanse arching over me. Fitting weather for today- there had even been a suggestion of thunder later. My dramatic flair had probably taken this into account when I planned the date, but I refused to give it any credit. Drama is emotion, emotion is weakness, and I was the ultimate strength. Any weakness could be exploited by the enemy.

Of course, after today, nothing could be exploited by the enemy. I allowed myself a small smile as I focused very carefully on floating to the edge of the roof. After a few steps I walked, normally but confidently, as there was no one to see my show. I would have to work on my floating before I next had an audience. I made a mental note of it- imagined myself pinning a bit of paper which said "Improve Floating" to the crowded cork board which was my memory.

I reminded myself that none of this was important. My focus for the day was to enjoy the show. I leaned back my head and let the cold wind wash over my face. I was wearing no coat; my long, pale arms were open to the air. I registered no cold as the anticipation of the day glowed from within. I was secure in the knowledge that I had prepared for every eventuality, had left no loose ends, was sure of success, and yet my enemy would likely still manage to escape and give me more opportunities for plotting little games for him to play.

I pulled a pair of opera glasses from a hidden niche in the wall. The time was right for the game to begin. I sat comfortably on the edge of the roof and turned my vision towards Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. Through the glasses I could easily make out the two figures, one grey and one black. I was grinning like a skull now, the watching grey figure circling the black.

It was clear to me that Richard Brooks had been an investment worth making. The name with no face now had not only a face, but a face which had appeared in papers across the nation. The so-called "kiss and tell" story which that irritating reporter had released had been worrying until I realized that she had accused my enemy of fabricating the character, and it all came down on his head. Should I ever meet my enemy in person, of course, I would let him assume that it had all been my plan.

The figures on the roof were growing agitated. I watched as the black figure stood on the edge of the roof, then backed away. I hoped that my plan had not been thwarted so soon- I was hoping that I would be given a sporting chance. But, as promised, he had caught the "slip up" in Mr. Brooks' script. Gunfire suddenly cracked across the sky towards me. It had surprised even me how far people were willing to go for the sake of love- but then, everyone (except me) had someone about whom they cared more than themself. It was easy to promise wealth, health and happiness for the family if suicide was committed, and painful death if it was not. In the end, Richard Brooks had served his role perfectly, and the remaining figure was apparently panicking now. He spun in circles, looking for a way out. I could see his shoulders relax as he finally realized that he had only one option. I took deep, relaxing breaths as he stood on the edge of the roof.

My breath stopped short when I saw the figure below him on the sidewalk. As much as I hated to admit it, I had a bit of a crush on John Watson. I did plan to use this to my advantage, though I had seen Irene Adler fall into that trap with my enemy. Such a clever woman she had been, I was quite glad to hear that she had survived and gone into hiding where she could live in peace without interfering with my plans. I had planned for ways to avoid a similar defeat. In the meantime, I would admit my weakness and give in to it so as not to waste energy resisting. I allowed myself remorse over the fact that I was breaking his heart, and then moved on.

I leaned forward, almost in danger of falling off of the roof myself, as the scene playing out on the roof reached its climax. The phone was thrown away, which of course sent Watson into a panic down in the street, he started running towards the building, my enemy jumped- I started as he reached the space about two meters from the ground. Surely not? I leaned back, a small part of my brain processing the scene still occurring below the building and most of it contemplating this latest defeat. I had to admit, that possibility of escape had not occurred to me. How ingenious… and, of course, Watson would get a good look at the bloody body, possibly even take his pulse…

I snapped up and replaced the opera glasses in their niche, then strode purposefully across the roof and back down the stairs. This was quite interesting, but I could still play games with my enemy even though he was technically dead. Emotional games were the most fun to play, after all, and emotion is weakness.


	2. Chapter 2: An Important Revelation

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock definitely belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC, as much as I wished that I had the genius to come up with him. :-) Anything you recognize isn't mine.

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**Author's Note: **Some people might be frustrated about the short chapters, but I'm going to try to update frequently when I can. Otherwise, just bear with me! Also: who knows a good Brit-picker? Also again: please review! Love all my readers, thanks.

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I was wearing the same black dress as I had worn that day on the roof. The freshly turned dirt muddied the skirt and sent tendrils of cold water through to my knees, but I still kneeled. This was absolutely important, and I had to play the part well.

When I heard the crunch of tires on gravel a little ways away, I stared fixedly at the sun until tears streamed down my face. Eventually my gaze lowered to the gravestone in front of me, still catching the reflection of the sun off of it but displaying the charade of examining it. I was quite excited for this role- I had always been a natural actress, perhaps because I had always had to work a little harder just to act normal.

My plan was to pass myself off to John Watson (I knew that he would be here today) as an acquaintance of my enemy who was devastated at his death. I would be close enough to be more than a fan but not close enough that I would have been mentioned to Watson. This would hopefully spark a conversation about my enemy which would lead to my being asked to tea. This would burgeon into a relationship which would allow me to not only play games with my enemy, but to continue my work from right under his nose while he thought me dead. My dramatic flair cheered and was quickly crushed to make room for more fake tears.

As I knelt in front of my enemy's grave, I caught a flash of black out of the corner of my eye. I glanced up and saw no one there, which led to a quick series of deductions which told me that it must have been my enemy. Goodness, sentiment makes us- no, not us, them- do silly things. This was too good an opportunity to pass up.

I staggered to my feet, pretending to be overcome with grief. There was always a chance that he had not noticed before which stone I kneeled, but knowing him the chance was slim. That would complicate things slightly.

I made my way past the gravestone and through the trees, walking briskly. He was being quite cautious- I suppose he thought that it would be awkward to reveal oneself to a mourner at one's own grave- and I quickly lost him over the top of a wooded hill. I ducked into a mausoleum and pulled a red wig and a denim jacket from under my skirts, then unfastened the skirt itself and turned it inside out so that the green side showed. I left through a secret back door (I knew every inch of London and its surroundings) and plopped down at the side of another grave. My tears were dry and I patted on some blush as I ducked my head. When I detected my enemy's presence nearby, I was an entirely different person.

I could feel him watching me for a few minutes, and then he moved off back towards his grave. I was able to follow him casually and at a great distance, and arrived in the area just in time to watch John Watson leave. He was clearly overcome with emotion. My enemy watched his friend leave with a thoughtful expression on his face, though I was not close enough to tell which of us had caused it.

This was a new development. My enemy still in London? My mind turned over and began its contemplation of the implications of this. I was interrupted by my ringing phone, which I was tempted to crush underfoot for the annoyance. However, I answered it.

"Proffessor Moriarty?"

"This is she," I replied coolly. "Hello, Miss Adler. Would you mind telling me how you got this number?"


	3. Chapter 3: An Intriguing Interview

**Disclaimer:** Sherlock belongs to the BBC. People and places you recognize aren't mine.

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It wasn't long before I was sitting comfortably in my flat, a cup of tea in hand, speaking to Miss Adler on the computer. I could see her, but I had, of course, disconnected my web camera. I had never met Irene face to face, but I was determined to quickly find out how she had contacted me and then remove the threat. It was a pity.

My computer station was really more of a media center, my L-shaped desk housing two desktop iMacs, a small television screen playing muted BBC news, an MP3 player dock, and a filing cabinet, locked, which held a few of my more mundane records. Above my head was a bulletin board with a street map of London which had been speckled with circles, pins and cryptic coded marks. One of my drawers held a large stack of tabloids with headlines like "Suicide of Fake Genius" and "Reichenbach Hero Falls; Elaborate Scam Revealed."

I observed the swirling patterns of steam drifting off of the black surface of my tea. "All right Miss Adler. Let's start from the beginning. When did you figure it out?"

She leaned back in her straight-backed chair on my video screen, a satisfied smile on her face. "It was quite obvious when you think about it. I quickly figured out who Richard Brooks was, so I knew that he wasn't the real Moriarty. Anyway, the only man who could have done so well was Sherlock Holmes himself. I knew from my encounter with him that he had no criminal activities running on the side, so there must have been someone else behind the scenes of Richard Brooks. Now, there was a distinctly feminine touch to a few of your heists, but I couldn't be sure of that until I spoke to you."

I raised my eyebrows at her string of deductions, which sounded exactly like my enemy. Was it perhaps possible that he had travelled all the way to be with her? Or was she here? "All right Miss Adler, you're obviously very sharp. But how did you get my number?"

"Well, Professor, I'm honestly surprised that it was so easy. Mr. Brooks' phone had minimal protection. I know a hacker- well-"

"Yes, you know what he likes, I know," I said as I rolled my eyes. "Please continue."

"He was able to make short work of it," she continued as if I had not interrupted her. Her poise was excellent. "There was one number in the "received messages" folder which had no label. A bit of research and some 'interviewing' people were all that I needed to determine your identity."

"I do hope you're liking America." I made sure that she could hear me shuffling papers as I said, "Seattle, isn't it? I hear it's quite dreary there."

"Oh, no more so than London." She continued the conversation as though we had been speaking about the American west coast for the whole interview. "The people here are so funny, too. I never get tired of listening to their odd little accents. It's easy to blend in once you have the accent."

"Quite."

There was a pause as I scribbled a few notes on a folder and Miss Adler waited patiently for me to speak again. Her self-satisfied smile was starting to annoy me.  
"I hope that your time in America has not spoiled the experience of being back at home?"

There, the way that her eyebrows arched down suddenly and lines appeared at the edges of her mouth. I had guessed correctly- after all, Seattle was a long round trip to make between one's death and one's funeral.

I smiled brightly, knowing that she would read it in my voice. "I expect that I shall be seeing you quite soon, Miss Adler. Give my regards to your boyfriend."

As I pressed the button to terminate the call, Irene Adler opened her mouth as though to protest to something I said, then shut it quickly and pressed the button at the exact same moment as I did. How infuriating.


	4. Chapter 4: A Chance Encounter

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Sherlock_, nor do I pretend to! Also, The Old Red Lion is a real pub on Red Lion Street in London. That is not my property and I don't own the pub.

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**Author's Note:** Ok, I should say at this point that I am American. I have never been to London. I shamelessly use Google Earth and Rick Steves books. PLEASE let me know if there is something that I said incorrectly! Also, this is a nice longer chapter that I _just_ finished typing out. I love writing the story for the sake of writing, but it doesn't hurt to get a review or two now and then. :-)

In regards to my story "So Much for Rose's Happy Ending," I'm sorry but I had to remove it due to potential copyright infringement issues. I may be able to edit it and put it back up, but until then, SORRY!

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That night, after my distressing conference with Irene Adler, I stood in front of the floor-length mirror in my otherwise simple bedroom. It was always exciting when I had the opportunity to employ my extensive masquerade skills to conceal my identity. I gazed critically at my attire, assessing its ability to meet its purpose.

I wore simple indigo skinny jeans with silver flowers stitched into the back pockets. My shoes, finely made black leather flats with no shine, were elegant but functional. A white short-sleeved top with ruffles and silver sequins in the front spilled down through the zippered opening of a black leather jacket to match my flats. I twitched my head to test the jingling potential of my cascading chandelier earrings- as a sociopath, it pays to have many sources on how to elicit emotions, and my tests so far had proved Miss Scarlett O'Hara correct on her jewelry theory.

I leaned in to inspect my makeup- dramatic red lipstick with violet undertones, slightly smoky eyes, and light blush to accent the apples of my cheeks when I smiled. My long wavy hair, so dark brown that it was almost black, had been disrupted from its normal flow down my shoulders to be pulled into a soft, middle-height pony tail, the end of which still just dusted the back of my neck.

The overall effect was youthful but mature, formal but relaxed. I could go anywhere in London without much notice now. Where I planned to go, however, was not just anywhere.

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Was it always so grey in London? I mused to myself as I walked briskly and purposefully through the dim streets. I knew that there had been sunny days where every building in the city sparkled like a diamond, and I could remember days when a hushed blanket of snow had muffled the stark outlines of every object and transformed the city into a unique world of white. I decided in the end that London was many things besides grey, but the greyness was just what stood out. It was similar to the way that plenty Americans were not overweight, but they were all ignored in favor of their heavier friends.

I glanced down at the lily in my hand. I was sure that it was the correct choice- tall, elegant, slightly waxy but with a light, pleasant scent. I hoped that the grimy wind that blew through the maze of traffic would fail to smudge the snowy blossom with grey. My purse was heavy with the weight of a candle, pure white to match the flower, in a mason jar. It bounced against my hip with every step that I took.

According to the perfect map of London in my head, I was nearing my destination. I turned right from Ludgate Hill to Old Bailey and began marching northwards. My plan was to meet Dr. Watson on his nightly pilgrimage to St. Bart's hospital, since my earlier attempt to snare him had been disrupted by the appearance of my enemy.

It was not long before I reached the section of sidewalk where the event had occurred. People pushed past with heads down, all too concerned with their own lives to notice the single guttering candle against the wall or the lingering rusty stain on the pavement. I kneeled next to this, the cool of the earth pulling the heat from my legs as I reached into my bag and extracted my own candle. One spark of a match was all it took to add a stronger orange glow to my little corner of the bluish dusk, protected from the slight wind by the solid jar. Next out of my bag came a blurry photograph of my enemy, nondescript enough to have been from any number of blogs or tabloids. I leaned this against the wall and secured it with a small bit of sticky tape.

By this point I could feel eyes on my back. I could hear Dr. Watson's breath behind me, struggling to remain quiet as he waited to see how I would complete my ritual. Without altering my movements noticeably, I shifted to that half of my face could be seen to be twisted in sadness.

Finally, I settled the lily gently between the candle and the photograph. I sat for a moment and contemplated my work before abruptly standing up. I took Dr. Watson by surprise as I ran straight into him, my tear-stained face managing to register an expression of extreme shock. I stumbled backwards as he apologized, his hand darting forward to steady my elbow.

"I'm so sorry, are you all right?" I couldn't help but smile at the genuinely concerned (and quite sweet) expression on his face.

"Yes, I'm- I'm all right. Just a bit- well, I didn't expect anyone to be- oh!" My jaw went calculatedly slack as my eyes finally fully met his face. "But, you're Dr. Watson! I'm so- oh, you must think- er-"

I saw his eyes flicker down to my little memorial. Then he spoke, so softly that I could barely hear him over the ambient noise of London. "Did you know him?"

"Honestly?" I looked down, too. "Not really, no."

"Then… what's this?" He gestured halfheartedly at the sidewalk.

"I knew him by reputation. I followed your blog." I smiled at him. "I read everything on his website, too. Absolutely brilliant." I could see tears beginning to form in his eyes as I told my carefully revised story. "Then he started appearing in the newspapers. Big stories- government involvement, and then the Moriarty court case- but you know all this of course." I sighed deeply.

"Then I go to get the paper one morning, and there are these huge headlines all over the tabloids- 'Suicide of Fake Genius' and the like. That sounded odd. I read all of them that I could get my hands on, looked back at all the stuff on the Moriarty case. I was disappointed at first, he was a bit of a hero to me." Dr. Watson looked up, his eyes full and sad. "But then I started looking around the internet. There was nothing out there like the stuff on his site. Nothing. I went to the library- nothing. I couldn't find anywhere that he could have copied those ideas from. I knew that he was obviously still as much of a genius as I had thought, and the press has been known to turn on people before." I saw a flicker of something in his eyes- hope? Happiness? Truth? I knew that my story was exactly what he wanted to hear.

"I figure that one of two things must have happened- either he committed suicide because everyone thought that he was faking it, or he was forced into it by someone." I paused for a moment to catch my breath and let him mind process what I was saying. "Anyway, I think it's terribly sad that he isn't remembered properly, and I thought it might be nice if, you know, I were to just bring a candle…" I trailed off, looking him earnestly in the eyes. "I honestly didn't expect to see you here, you must think it so shallow of me when I didn't really know him at all."

It was a moment before Dr. Watson responded. He cleared his throat, and said thickly, "I think it's brilliant." He smiled sadly at me, and I wasn't sure whether he meant the memorial or my story. "Just between us, I don't think that he was lying, either. And the memorial is beautiful. It just needs one thing."

I looked at him curiously as he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled free a bundle of cloth. With a start, I realized that it was 'the hat.' I never understood why that strange deerstalker ever became such an icon of my enemy, but often laughed at his indignation at being associated with it. Now I watched as his best friend tenderly placed it on the gritty pavement next to my candle and flower. We both stood in silence for several seconds, doing our best to remain stationary despite the jostling crowd around us.

"He hated that hat, you know." Dr. Watson chuckled. I looked over at him to see that his face hand lightened a bit even as the night darkened around us. He looked over at me, a smile slowly spreading across his tired face. "Fancy a drink?"

I gave my most brilliant grin in return, and was gratified to see a sparkle of response in Dr. Watson's eyes. "There's always the Old Red Lion. It's only 0.8 miles away if we take Holborn."

His eyes widened, and then he gave a genuine laugh. "Don't tell me- you've got a complete and updated map of London in your head, too?"

"Would you still take me for a drink if I did?" I hoped a moment later that I didn't sound too desperate or defensive or- well, I think it's quite safe to say that I was relatively out of practice when it came to dealing with men.

"Wait, really?"

"So, how about that drink?" I darted a hand out above the street to flag down a cab.

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**Teaser:** Will Miss Moriarty be able to overcome her feelings for Watson and complete her mission of completely destroying her enemy? Or, will she decide to leave her past life and start over with the Baker Street boys? Most important of all, how on earth will I incorporate the phrase "When my feline expired I waxed lachrymose" into the next chapter? Find out, later in "Moriarty- Jane Moriarty?" *dramatic music*


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